My name is Gabrielle Colette and the hand that holds the pen writes history.
The hand that holds the pen writes history.
You hurt and you hurt and you hurt, and you think that by saying “I’m a man, that’s what men do”, you clear it all away.
I can read you like the top line of an optician’s chart.
Isn’t that what our whole marriage has been? Wasn’t I the best investment you ever made? No dowry, but my God, she can write for her keep!
When you raise your eyelids it’s as if you were taking off all my clothes. Don’t look away. Look at me. Look at me looking at you.
You found me when I knew nothing. You moulded me to your own designs, to your desires. And you thought that I could never break free.
Yes, this is the dangerous, lucid hour. Now, whenever I despair, I no longer expect my end, but some bit of luck, some commonplace little miracle which, like a glittering link, will mend again the necklace of my days.
